The Elegant Art of Dining: Bohemian San Francisco, Its ... - iMedia

This is the recipe as Coppa gave it to us, his little wife standing at his side and
giving, now and then, a suggestion as Coppa’s memory halted.
A bare recital of the terms of the recipe cannot bring to the uninitiated even a
suspicion of the delightful aroma that comes from the cocoanut when its top is
lifted, nor can it give the slightest idea of the delicacy of the savor arising from
the combination of the cocoanut with young chicken. It is not a difficult dish
to prepare, and if you cannot get it at any of the restaurants, and we are sure
you cannot, try it at home some time and surprise your friends with a dish to
be found in only one restaurant in the world. If you desire it at Coppa’s on your
visit to San Francisco you will have to telephone out to him in advance (unless
he has succeeded in getting back to the city, which he contemplates) so that he
can prepare it for you, and, take our word for it, you will never regret doing so.
Coppa has many wonderful dishes to serve, and he delights so much in your
appreciation that he is always fearful something is wrong if you fail to do full
justice to his meal. He showed this one evening when he had filled a little party
of us to repletion by his lavish provision for our entertainment, and nature
rebelled against anything more. To us came Coppa in tears.
“What is the matter with the chicken, Doctor? Is it not cooked just right?”
It was with difficulty that we made him understand that there was a limit to
capacity, and that he had fed us with such bountiful hand we could eat no more.
Even now when we go to Coppa’s we have a little feeling of fear lest we offend
him by not eating enough to convince him that we are pleased.
Coppa’s walls were always adorned with strange conceits of the artists and
writers who frequented his place, and after a picture, or a bit of verse had
remained until it was too familiar some one erased it and replaced it with
something he thought was better. We preserved one written by an unknown
Bohemian. We give it just as it was:
Through the fog of centuries, dim and dense, I sometimes seem to see The
shadowy line of a backyard fence And a feline shape of me. I hear the growl, and
yowl and howl Of each nocturnal fight, And the throaty stir, half cry, half purr
Of passionate delight, As seeking an amorous rendezvous My ancient brothers
go stealing Through the purple gloom of night.
I’ve seen your eyes, with a greenish glint; You move with a feline grace; And
when you are pleased I catch the hint Of a purr in your throat and face. Then I
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